


Where to Start

by freyjawriter24



Series: Hozier's Good Omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Almost (Sweet Music), Almost Kiss, Crowley almost kisses Aziraphale several times throughout history, First Kiss, Good Omens fic based on a Hozier song, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), enough pine to fill a forest, it's all about the longing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 11:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21074114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: There have been countless times across the millennia that Crowley has almost kissed Aziraphale. It takes an almost-Apocalypse and a healthy dose of bravery for the first kiss to actually happen, though.Fic inspired by the title and music of Hozier’s song Almost (Sweet Music).





	Where to Start

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by Hozier’s song [Almost](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oe_Tfa_4Zc8) [(Sweet Music)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJ9IX4zgyLs) (two links because one’s the lyric video, which is beautiful, and the other’s the official music video). It’s more inspired by the title and the feel of the song rather than the story of the lyrics, but I would still very much recommend going and listening to it as part of your reading experience...
> 
> This is my first attempt at the time-honoured fanfiction format of ‘[number] times X happened and one time Y happened’. Hopefully I did it decently. Let me know what you think.

_I wouldn’t know where to start_

\-----

The first, of course, was right out of the starting gate.

It wouldn’t have been a romantic kiss, a kiss filled with love and caring and thousands of years of shared experiences and mutual feeling and fear of connection and affection and adoration. No, it would have been a kiss of pure joy, of celebratory happiness, of shock and wonder and simple pleasure.

“I gave it away!”

“You _what_?”

But, of course, it didn’t happen. It would have been completely inappropriate, and probably would have gotten him smited on the spot.[1] So he just stared, eyes wide. And the conversation continued, as if nothing had happened. Which was completely true. Obviously.

There definitely wasn’t something new that had lodged itself squarely in the centre of Crawley’s chest. It definitely wasn’t causing his corporation to experience a faster than usual heartrate. And if it _did_ exist, it was definitely a temporary thing, to be forgotten in a decade or so, never to resurface.

Obviously.

\-----

_Be still my foolish heart..._

\-----

The second time was millennia later.

Crowley had been trying not to cry all evening – all day for the last few days, in fact, not that she was going to tell anyone that – and for the most part, she’d been succeeding.

But an unquantifiable amount of alcohol later, in a tiny room far too close to that hill where the body no longer was, she broke down.

The tears came suddenly, without warning, and she couldn’t look at the angel for fear of what she’d see there. So she stared down at the cup in her lap, attempting to will herself to stop.

Aziraphale stood up and moved out of her field of vision, and maybe now, in her moment of weakness, the angel would decide a good smiting was in order, and Crowley would lose the one other good thing in her life at the moment.

Then a gentle, firm weight lowered itself onto her back. She turned, shocked out of sobbing for an instant, and found that Aziraphale had gotten hold of a blanket and was putting it around her shoulders. Around hers, and around his own; the angel’s arm stayed under the blanket, soft against her back, and she felt him settle himself against her, a pillar of warm comfort.

Crowley hesitated for a moment, then turned slightly and buried her face in his neck, sobbing harder than before.

She wanted to thank him, but she didn’t know how. There were no words for this enormous offering of kindness, nothing she could say that would tell him how much this meant. Nothing at all.

What words could you use when an angel chooses to comfort and support a demon, their sworn enemy, when the latter is sobbing their heart out over the death of someone she shouldn’t care about at all, or should feel negative emotion towards, if any? Thanks for that level of unparalleled kindness cannot be put into words.

When she’d finished crying, when the tears subsided and the shaking of her corporation no longer felt like it was going to split itself apart, she stayed there. She let the angel hold her a while longer, letting her breathing slow and her limbs relax, letting all the tension she’d had before out, and choosing to exist only in this moment.

It felt soft and wonderful.

This wasn’t something that could happen, that should happen. This wasn’t meant to be real, and yet it was – Aziraphale was holding her, letting her emotions run through their cycle, and remaining steady through it all.

She should move. She didn’t want to – she could go to sleep here, like this, if she tried. There was a chance the angel thought she already had, her breathing having slowed now into relaxed comfort. But still he said nothing, and so she stayed a little while longer.

It was then that something, a something that had been around for over four millennia by that point, took noticeable root in Crowley’s chest.

She inhaled a little sharper as she noticed it, recognised it. At the sound, the angel infinitesimally tightened the supportive arm around her. A squeeze of comfort. Crowley stopped breathing.

_Shit. Oh Lord, oh no, oh dear. Not this. Not now. Not him._

But there it was, and it wasn’t going away, and still she stayed against him. She shouldn’t.

She breathed in deeply, one slow breath that gave her a lungful of his scent, and then she drew away. Aziraphale released her immediately, arm sliding out from under the blanket to leave her draped in it – still covered and warm, but somehow at the same time colder now without him there against her.

Her sharp yellow eyes flicked up to meet his soft blue ones, and she offered a small smile through the tear tracks and the ache in her chest and the fuzz of the alcohol. Then she looked away.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. It was barely there, a sound so tiny it was almost undetectable. She hoped he’d heard her. She wasn’t going to say it again.

“Not at all, my dear.” The reply was equally quiet, and yet somehow softer, more full of emotion than Crowley had thought was possible.

She raised her head to meet his eyes again, and felt herself melting in the power of that gentle gaze.

And _oh_, she wanted to kiss him. She looked into his eyes, and at his lips and at the slight flush of alcohol in his cheeks, and she wanted to reach across the small, enormous space between them and kiss him, simple and soft and pure.

She almost did. It could be passed off as drunkenness, she reasoned, even though the alcohol had long since started to wear off now. It could be treated as a moment of emotional weakness, nothing real, nothing that would be repeated. It could happen, and then it could be forgotten about.

But she imagined the instant afterwards – those eyes clouded by disgust, by hate, by pitying sadness – and she stopped herself. She looked away.

“I’m going to sober up now,” she said, staring at a mark on the wall. “And then... then I think I should go.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, and Crowley heard the intake of breath that signalled his intention to speak. She met his eyes again and shook her head slightly. The angel paused, then nodded in acceptance.

A moment later, and there was a foul taste in her mouth and the residual lightness of the alcohol evaporated. The world felt heavier, and the reality of everything she’d been sobbing about came crashing down on her again. But this time she was ready. She held firm, refusing to let those emotions overwhelm her, and after a moment she stood, shedding the blanket that was still partly around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

The angel’s face crinkled in focus for a second, and then he stood too, newly sober and with the blanket in his arms. He folded it slowly, carefully, not quite looking at her, and then laid it aside.

“Thank you, angel.” She’d said it again.

The blue eyes darted up to hers and he gave a small smile, an odd mix of emotions dancing across his face. Crowley felt her heart squeeze, and fought the urge to smile back.

She should go now. She was teetering on the edge of almost again.

“I’ll see you around.” She headed for the door, not daring to look back.

“Goodbye, Crowley.”

Soft, so soft, _too_ soft. Her name in his voice sounded gentle and careful and _fond_, and she couldn’t cope. She didn’t look at him. She opened the door, and went through, and walked away.

And the way he said her name, the name she’d chosen for herself, echoed in her head with every step she took.

Satan, she was in trouble now.

\-----

_I’m almost me again_

\-----

Eight years later, and Crowley was totally, hopelessly gone.

He’d sought Aziraphale out.

No, no, that sounded far too needy, far too active. He didn’t _seek him out_, he hadn’t trawled through the bars and public spaces of Rome until he’d spotted the angel, then purposely sat down near him and waited in hopes he’d notice. No, he wasn’t _that_ bad.

But what he did do, upon having the worst day he’d had in several years and figuring having a certain someone around might cheer him up, was reach out with his ability to sense celestial beings, notice that the angel appeared to be in the city, locate the rough area he was in, and walk into the closest bar to that point, hoping that the angel might spontaneously bump into him and maybe make him smile.

And that was an entirely different thing.

“Still a demon, then?” Crowley had no idea what the _fuck_ he meant by that. _Maybe this was a mistake._

“What kind of stupid question is that, ‘still a demon’? What else am I going to be, an aardvark?”

The words came out harsher than he’d perhaps meant them to, but it didn’t even matter anyway. Either way, Aziraphale was going to run off eventually, and he might as well get rid of the only good thing in Crowley’s life _now_ than wait another couple of thousand years and make the whole thing even worse.

The angel didn’t leave, though.

“Salutaria,” he said, offering his cup to the demon, and Crowley grudgingly tapped his own against Aziraphale’s. _Cheers, mate._

Crowley looked away, staring at the wall behind the bar, staring at the brown liquid in his cup that he was considering willing into something stronger, refusing to look at Aziraphale.

“In Rome long?”

The demon put his cup down on the bar. He wanted to sigh deeply, but he didn't. He couldn't. After all, the angel was clearly just trying to help.

He answered the question, of course he did. “Just nipped in for a quick temptation.” Then, before he could stop himself – “You?”

“I thought I’d try Petronius’ new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”

And here, here is where he gives in. Here is where his heartbeat picks up a little, some tiny thing in the back of his mind recognising the invitation to suggest an interest in an invitation, and some larger thing in his chest being unable to resist that call.

He picked up his cup. “I’ve never eaten an oyster.” He drank. He felt Aziraphale look over at him in shock.

“Oh. Oh, well, let me tempt you to –”

_Tempt?_

Crowley wasn’t sure whether it was a terrible, intentional joke or a genuine, hilarious slip-up, but for some reason he didn’t care. For some reason he wanted to smile, despite his foul mood.

“Oh, no. No, that’s – that’s your job, isn’t it?”

He had to fight hard to stop himself from laughing. He couldn’t prevent the smile from making itself known on his lips, but he hid it as much as he could, taking another sip to somewhat cover it up. _Oh yes, this was the right decision. This will be worth it._

Crowley let Aziraphale lead him out of the bar and across the city to Petronius’ restaurant. He let him order a large platter of oysters, let him talk over the proper way to eat them, let him demonstrate first, and then humoured him by trying them himself. They were odd – squishy and salty in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but wasn’t exactly to Crowley’s taste, either. Aziraphale ended up eating most of the tray, and then Crowley ordered some more alcohol, and it was decided, without ever being spoken, that they would spend the rest of the day together, if not also most of the night.

The contrast between Crowley’s earlier mood and his current elation would have been surprising if he hadn’t known full well why it had happened. If he couldn’t feel that wonderful lightness in his chest whenever he looked at Aziraphale, laughing and joking with him, smiling beautifully and shining brilliantly in the sun and in the candlelight.

It was almost the end of the evening when he considered doing it again. No, not just considered – when he _almost did_. There was a moment, when Crowley had said something, and the angel had responded back with something so smart and funny and wonderful, that he’d actually leaned forward, right into Aziraphale’s space, before he stopped himself. _No._

He’d turned it into something casual, reaching for the alcohol with the swaying motion of someone who’s already had enough, and then curled himself tight into his chair to avoid it happening again. He couldn’t afford to ruin this. Not now, not ever. He couldn’t lose this.

And then the angel said something else, and Crowley threw his head back and laughed, and meant it, and the almost was almost forgotten. Almost.

\-----

_I laugh like me again_

\-----

Another time: Rome had come and gone, dissolved into pointlessness, and Crowley was an ocean away, and it was cold. The angel reached out to warm him, and the two of them curled up in a makeshift bit of miracled safety.

They were both there for the humans, of course. The Vikings were out viking, but they’d gone a little further than usual, across the Atlantic, an entire continent away. Crowley was there to encourage them to react with fear and anger to any Native Americans they might meet; Aziraphale was there to push love and open-mindedness into their hearts. The decision would still be the humans’ to make, as both of their presences there would cancel each other out.

Or at least, that’s how it was supposed to go. Instead the two of them stayed curled up together, sharing the warmth, letting the humans choose their own path.

“It would have had the same result anyway,” Crowley reasoned.

“And besides,” Aziraphale commented, “You were looking so miserable and cold. If I could bring a demon towards the light, that would have far more positive consequences for the future of humanity.”

Crowley had looked up to snarl at that, but then he caught the twinkle in the angel’s eye and – _Ooh, you bastard, I could kiss you right now_.

The demon baulked at his own inner monologue. _He’s the enemy, what the Heaven are you on about?_ It had been centuries since the last almost, centuries since he’d thought about leaning over the table or across the tight space or stepping across the room, centuries since he’d imagined what that would feel like, what he would taste like.

But it wasn’t centuries since he’d imagined the angel’s arms around him, his chin in his hair. It wasn’t centuries since he’d imagined the two of them hand in hand, walking together among the humans. It wasn’t centuries since he’d imagined the two of them laughing over a bottle of wine together in a home they shared, permanently. It had barely been hours.

He sat quietly for a while, saying nothing more. When the angel got bored and miracled a snack – never as good as the real thing, but it would do for now – Crowley miracled a bottle of something strong. When he felt some of the heat come back into his fingers,[2] he passed the bottle to Aziraphale, and the angel smiled.

They were there together for a handful of days, exchanging stories and reminiscing about old times. They didn’t talk about Rome, or Golgotha, or the Wall. They didn’t talk about them together, stealing time in each other’s company. They talked about everything that had happened in between, all the swathes of history they’d been apart, all the exciting events they’d seen or they’d missed, exchanging stories of Australia and South America and northern Russia, and wondering whether the humans would ever bother to colonise Antarctica.

And Crowley almost stopped thinking about how much he wanted to kiss Aziraphale, how close he’d come to doing it again. Almost.

\-----

_That was my heart, the drums_

\-----

Another place: Crowley was somewhere in Japan, avoiding doing the thing she was meant to be doing, and Aziraphale was there too, avoiding the same task, helping balance things out by choosing not to interfere alongside her, instead feeding that growing hunger in Crowley’s chest by arranging cherry blossoms in her hair as she plaited it.

“There, done. Beautiful.”

Crowley swivelled around to look at Aziraphale, and her stupid, unnecessary heart stopped for a second. The soft light behind his head made the angel’s hair glow, soaking up and refracting the light so it looked like a halo, and Crowley couldn’t breathe. There was a blossom tucked in there, too, over the left ear, where the demon wanted to have placed it herself, but was too shy to do so.

And they were close, so close. They were both sat cross-legged, and their knees were touching through the thin, soft cloth of their fine clothes. Crowley’s heart had started up again, and it was now a raging pulse that she could hear in her head and feel in her chest and was certain Aziraphale would notice any second.

It would be so _easy_. That was the trouble of it – all it would take was a slight lean forwards, mere inches of space. A gulp of courage, closed eyes, soft lips. She could do it, right here and now – stone-cold sober, no excuses, just open honesty and fuck-it-I-just-need-to-know laid bare. She could do it, all it would take was –

Everything. That was the problem. It could take away everything – their friendship, their Arrangement, their companionship, their support. She might open her eyes to see utter horror and disgust, and she couldn’t take it, she would rather dive into a pool of holy water than have to see that look cross Aziraphale’s face in relation to her.

That was the closest she came. That was the very-nearly-not-an-almost. But then she leaned back and stood up and they decided to look at the night sky together instead.

Aziraphale never did notice the booming drum sounding in Crowley’s chest.

\-----

_Sweet music playing in the dark_

\-----

There were several million more moments – several lifetimes’ worth, if you measured it as a human would. Almosts numbering more than the minutes most humans were alive for. Almosts by the bucketload. None of them ever changing into something else. None of them ever said aloud.

But most of the time, now, the almosts were replaced by could-have-beens. Crowley _could have_ kissed him then, when he made that hilarious quip, but he didn’t, he didn’t even almost. It _could have_ happened then, when they were just lounging together in the early hours of the morning, no other being in the city awake – but it didn’t. Their lips _could have_ brushed then, when the demon did the smallest of favours for the angel and the response was a smile brighter than the sun – but they didn’t. It never happened. It only _could have_.

\-----

_...let the good times roll..._

\-----

One more almost, a rarity now: Grenada. Back in their usual haunt, the people had just tried and then cut off the head of their king, but now Crowley and Aziraphale had both been temporarily called away to deal with some other apparently serious issue in the Caribbean.

It was dark. The colonists were huddled around a fire a little way off, discussing something in rapid French. The celestial beings were looking out across the lagoon and up at the stars, soaking in the endless expanse of beautiful night.

They hadn’t said anything in hours. They were just enjoying each other’s company.

Then soft words floated to Crowley on the sea breeze:

“Which ones were yours?”

There was only one thing that could be referring to, and Crowley closed their glasses-less eyes for a moment. This was something they’d confided in the angel only a short while ago, in their stretched view of time. He’d never asked about it, even though it was obvious at the time that he’d been burning with questions. Now, apparently, was when he felt comfortable letting them out.

A pause. A deep breath.

“That one,” they said quietly, eyes opening and landing on the star instantly, a finger lifting from where it had lain too close to the angel’s, pointing directly at the distant ball of flaming gas. “That was my first. I was amazed at how it looked, amazed that I had created it, that She’d let us have that power of creation, even in such a small way.”

They snuck a glance sideways. Aziraphale was gazing upwards at the star, eyes round and wide and awestruck. Something fluttered in Crowley’s chest.

“And that one,” the demon said, shifting where their finger was pointed. “That was my first big one – we had categories for them, descriptions of what needed to be made, that sort of thing.”

The angel nodded, still staring upwards. The finger shifted again, pointing its way without error, despite its owner no longer looking at the sky. “That whole group is mine. Every star in the constellation, and every star in between. At first we did them at random, then we started measuring them based on what would be visible from where Earth would be. So I knew they would all go together.”

“Serpens,” the angel breathed.

“Wasn’t called that then, of course. But, you know, when the humans started naming them, I thought, why not put my stamp on them? They’re mine, after all.”

Another moment passed, the angel looking, enraptured, at the stars, the demon looking with the same expression at the angel.

“That one’s my favourite, though.”

Aziraphale followed the line of Crowley’s finger. “That one? Why?”

“Alpha Centuri. It’s almost the nearest one to here. It’s actually two stars – A and B, balanced perfectly, spinning around each other, moving closer and then further apart all the time, but never separating, and yet never uniting either. It’s... it’s honestly breath-taking. I was so happy how it worked out, how beautiful they looked...” Crowley trailed off for a second, blinking through the echoes of long-buried memories. “And then there’s a third one, the actual nearest to here. The humans can’t see it, but – there, it’s that little red dwarf, see? They’re all in a system together. There’s planets up there, too, a nice one in a habitable zone, might be... might be nice to go and see sometime.”

Only then did Aziraphale look at them, his blue eyes practically glowing in the near-total darkness of the night. His soft face was full of emotion – a million different thoughts flooding his features with every beautiful combination possible.

And _oh, it would be so easy_. So easy to just move into that little space left between them, to just lean over...

_No. No. You can’t._

Crowley looked away, the intensity of the angel’s gaze too much to handle. They looked down at the water instead, trying to pick out where the pinpricks of light they’d made were reflected in the lapping waves.

“They’re incredible, my dear.” _Don’t look at him, don’t look, you’ll just do something stupid._ “Truly gorgeous. You’re so –”

There was a hesitation, and Crowley noticed it. They allowed themself a slight tilt of the head, a slight peek sideways. Aziraphale was staring firmly at the ground now, forehead crinkled in thought. He was choosing his best words, the demon knew. He wanted to say this right, whatever it was.

“You’re so _good_, Crowley, you really are. The stars up there, they’re so beautiful, and you _made_ them, and they’re perfect, and you’re so –”

Aziraphale didn’t finish his sentence. Slowly, Crowley turned to look at him, face frozen hard as stone.

“What.”

The word wasn’t really a question. It was said flatly, dangerously, a hard edge to it that the angel recognised instantly, and he met the demon’s eyes with a little trepidation.

Crowley shook their head. “I am not _good_, Aziraphale,” they said carefully, each word sharp and clear, a point to be made firmly and insistently. “I am not _good_ or _nice_ or whatever else you were going to say. I am a _demon_, angel. I’m not _allowed_ to be any of that.”

There were enough implications in the words that Crowley hoped it would shut him up. But apparently it wasn’t quite enough.

“But look at you! Look at what you do, what you create, look at how you act on Earth –”

“I am _not GOOD_!”

The words burst out of them without thought, and yet Aziraphale didn’t look surprised. He also didn’t look surprised at Crowley’s hands gripped into the clothes at his chest, at the demon baring down on him with teeth showing and eyes flaring – but Crowley was.

They stared at their own hands for a second, then released the angel and scooted away a little across the ground, curling in on themself and covering their face.

“Sorry.”

“My fault, my dear. I pushed you.”

Crowley heard the angel stand. “I’ll go and see what the humans are up to. Let me know when you have some wiles I need to thwart.”

Crowley didn’t watch him go. They stayed in place, limbs tucked around each other, head down and pressed against the fabric of their clothes, everything else locked out of this little mess of a demon.

_Bastard_, Crowley thought. Absolutely all thoughts of kissing the angel had gone now, of course.

Almost.

\-----

_It don’t mean a thing._

\-----

There was another almost, one that Crowley didn’t know about. It was centuries later, in a thirty-four-year-old car parked in Soho. The angel had just given the being he most loved in the entirety of creation the power to destroy them both, and now that being was looking at him with an expression that said _please, just one more thing – come with me_.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

And then he left, before he could do anything else stupid – left the demon and his own blessed holy water alone in the car.

\-----

_I get along without you very well some other nights._

\-----

The Antichrist was born, and they were living in the End Times.

Time seemed to go very quickly now that there wasn’t much left of it. Almosts came and went thick and fast, all of a sudden, and yet they never became the real thing – why not go for it, it’s the end of the world anyway, but also why ruin the last few moments you have together with something that has such a horrifically high chance of going wrong?

And then it was the child’s eleventh birthday, and he was the wrong boy, and everything went to shit.

They broke up. At the bandstand, at a rendezvous to see what each other had found out. Crowley offered the world to him, the universe, and his own heart and soul, as plainly as if he’d wrapped himself up with a bow, and the angel rejected it. Aziraphale said _it’s over_ in a way that meant _there had been something, they did mean something to each other_, but now that was gone, and there was nothing but a servant of Heaven and a pathetic excuse for a demon left at the end of it.

And then – then he _died_. The bookshop was on fire, everything Aziraphale held dear in the material world was going up in smoke and ash and bright, hot, scalding flames. Crowley collapsed on the floor in the wreckage of the place he’d begun to secretly call home, and sobbed for the friend he knew must be dead. There would be no more almosts now. No more anything. He was _gone_, and that was the end of it.

\-----

_The very thought of you and am I blue?_  
_A love supreme seems far removed..._

\-----

What was left worth saving? The humans, perhaps, but he was no use to any of them in this state. What could he possibly do now to help?

Alcohol – yes, alcohol was worth saving, but it wouldn’t be, would it? Not the decent kind, anyway, maybe just some terrible beers in the darkest corner of Hell – so maybe he should celebrate it while it lasted, raise one last drink (or bottle) or two (or six) to humanity, the Earth, and Aziraphale.

_God, why?_

And then, miraculously – a miracle beyond any he could create himself, beyond anything he’d ever thought possible – the angel was back. He was a quivering almost-hallucination in front of him, but no, he really was there, he was alive. _Oh Lord, God, Satan, whoever – thank you. Holy Satanic fuck, thank you._

“Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you. Where are you?”

He drove through fire for his angel. He discorporated a Duke of Hell by screeching flat-out through the flames, held his car together with nothing more than imagination and a grim determination that _he could do this, it would be okay, just make it to the air base and Aziraphale will be there and it’ll be alright._

He made it there, in a literal blaze of glory, and he swaggered out of the raging wreckage of the only material thing he’d ever cared about, and he’d almost kissed the angel then, in a moment of James-Bond-daydream-fuelled occult-equivalent-of-adrenaline. But there was a human in there too, and that would have been weird, and then the Bentley exploded, and then and then and then –

And then the world was saved, somehow, and it was their fault. Them, together. And they were sitting on a bench in a small village in Oxfordshire, sharing a bottle of wine and waiting for a night bus that would take them back to London. And somehow, despite them both likely being completely obliterated in the morning, right now everything was perfect.

“You can stay at my place, if you like.”

The angel stared at him with wide eyes – wide, desperate eyes – and Crowley dared to let himself believe, just for a moment, that something might come of it. But then the old look came back into his face, and Aziraphale looked away.

“I don’t think my side would like that.”

“You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do.” The angel looked at him. “We’re on our own side.”

And then, whether just for the sense of safety after a long, Apocalypse-avoiding, Heaven-and-Hell-defying day, or perhaps for the reassurance that he was, in fact, back in his own body – or maybe, just maybe, for another reason entirely – Aziraphale reached for his hand and held it for the entirety of the long ride back to Mayfair.

That one wasn’t another almost. Crowley would never dare push his luck so far.

\-----

_Don’t ruin this on me_

\-----

They beat Heaven and Hell again.

They switched faces, and got out of it, and were alive – brilliantly, wonderfully, ecstatically alive.

They went to the Ritz. It wasn’t the first time, wasn’t even unusual for them anymore, but still it gave Crowley a thrill every time they stepped through those doors together – the memory of that hope, that promise, offered with a tartan flask, flashing through his mind.

They went home. Back to the bookshop, back so Aziraphale could see that everything was as it had been, so that he could find what was new and assess the damage of anything missing, back so Crowley could curl up on the sofa and watch the angel scuttle around the place with the cutest expression of wonder on his face, suddenly replaced by adorable eye rolls and tuts as he found another of Adam’s surprise ‘gifts’, then replaced again by soft looks of warm fondness as he uncovered another old book with hundreds of memories attached.

Crowley could feel his heart booming and skipping beats and straining at the limits of his chest with every little movement and noise the angel made, but he didn’t even care anymore, because Aziraphale was _alive_, and they’d _made it_, they’d gotten rid of everyone who had a vendetta against them – they’d be safe for a while, now, and they were here, alive and _together_.

The demon was positive his face was bright red. He’d thought it might be, but he was certain now, because the angel had just looked over at him for the first time in a while, and his forehead had creased in momentary worry, and now he was coming over towards the sofa, and Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off him.

\-----

_“Is everything alright?”_

\-----

Aziraphale came right over and stood in front of him, and Crowley couldn’t do anything but gaze adoringly up at him and silently thank whoever made this happen over and over and over again, because he was here and he was alive and they were safe.

He tried to smile to soothe the angel’s frown, but he found his face folding all wrong, and he didn’t know why.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked.

The answer slipped out with unexpected ease, and yet the words broke with a shocking fragility towards the end: “You’re alive.”

It was then that the first tear rolled down Crowley’s cheek.

“_Oh_, my _dear_.”

Aziraphale knelt down in a single fluid motion and reached with both hands to cup Crowley’s face. “It’s alright, my dear, we’re okay, _I’m_ okay, we’re both alive. We’re fine.”

He used his thumbs to wipe away the water that seemed to refuse to stop pouring from the demon’s eyes, and every touch felt so soft and important and perfect, and Crowley thought he would just melt into a puddle of tears if he wasn’t careful.

He tried to take a calming breath, but choked on it – and then Aziraphale’s arms were around him and his face was buried in the angel’s neck and he was crying, full-on sobbing into this protective hug, this safety and comfort and intimacy that they never could have had before.

He remembered another time, a lifetime ago, an Apocalypse and an Antichrist and centuries ago – his weeping eyes pressed against the angel’s skin just like this, the gulps of air filled with that wonderful, calming, intoxicating scent just like this, but only one arm around him then, and resting there, supportive yet loose, not both arms holding him, firm and loving, in a way that said _as long as you need me, I’ll never let you go_.

He pulled his face away from the angel’s neck, and this time Aziraphale didn’t release him instantly – he held on while Crowley moved to look at him directly, still there, still here, still _alive_.

Crowley smiled with damp eyes and wavering lips. “You’re alive,” he said again, softly, because even if nothing ever happened, he needed the angel to know how much that meant to him, how incredible it felt that he was being allowed to have this interaction at all, in a building that should barely even exist anymore, with the one being in the universe (besides God) who truly knew him, and who still managed to love him for it, in whatever way that was.

He was about to find out what way that was.

Aziraphale, very slowly and deliberately, tilted his head forward so that his forehead was resting against Crowley’s.

“I’m alive,” he said gently. “And so are you. We’re okay now. We made it. We’re safe.”

Crowley nodded, the angel’s head moving with his as he did so.

“Yeah,” he breathed. He closed his eyes and inhaled – a breath to calm the last of his tears, a breath to inhale every fragment of this proximity he could before it was taken away again.

The point of contact between their foreheads ceased. Crowley opened his eyes and found those gorgeous soft blue ones staring back at him.

“We’re alive,” Aziraphale continued, searching the demon’s gaze. “And safe. And alone. And together.” He paused, eyes darting around Crowley’s loving yellow stare. “And... And...”

And Aziraphale kissed him.

It was the softest of touches, a careful and tender press of lips to lips, and oh, it was _perfect_, and then – oh, it was over too soon.

Crowley opened his eyes again and found the angel looking at him with all the feeling he himself had felt so many times over the years – _what if he hates it? What if he’s disgusted? What if he’s pitying? What if he’s horrified?_

So he wiped away those fears in the only way he knew how. He kissed him, again.

It was a kiss of devotion, of reverence and longing and gentle desire, and he kept it short, just in case.

He drew back, and it had worked – there was a new expression on Aziraphale’s face now, and it was hope and pleasure and ecstasy and _love, love, love_.

They came together in sync this time, and they kissed again, again, again. It was soft and it was firm, it was tender and it was desperate, it was new and it was full of six thousand years of everything that had ever happened between them, and it was gorgeous. It was wonderful. It was bliss.

They drew apart for an instant, and smiled like shy teenagers, and then laughed at their own absurdity, and then kissed again. Mouths, eyes, cheeks, foreheads, lips, lips, lips.

\-----

_I owe each kiss to lip and cheek as soft as Chet can sing_

\-----

Crowley had kissed him, and he was never going to stop kissing him, and there would never need to be an almost ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 He might not have been smited, but he was rather smitten. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Unlike human bodies, wherein alcohol tends to mean you don’t feel the cold rather than actually warming you up, angels and demons were a little late to the alcohol party, and so (having a rather poor grasp on biology) believed it when the humans said it physically warms you up if you’re cold. Their corporations therefore actually were warmed slightly by the drink – not entirely, not nearly enough, but a little. [return to text]
> 
> **Other notes:**  
Lyrics in italics are all from Almost (Sweet Music) – you can read the lyrics (and their meanings) [here](https://genius.com/Hozier-almost-sweet-music-lyrics).


End file.
